


That Isn't Our Song!

by Professor_Saber



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professor_Saber/pseuds/Professor_Saber
Summary: At St. Luke's Bristol, Clara and the Doctor have a musical prank war.





	That Isn't Our Song!

**Author's Note:**

> This silly little fic began with me imagining what Clara and Twelve would get up to if she had been with him while he was hiding at St. Luke's. The first scene popped into my head, and it escalated from there.

It began early on a Saturday morning in the late 80’s. The Doctor was seated at his desk, going through piles of student papers, when the sound of a very familiar and unwelcome song met his ears.

_Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down…_

“No, no!” he groaned, sinking back in his chair.

The ear-piercing sound of Rick Astley got louder as Clara slid into the room, wearing white socks and dancing terribly, and holding a gargantuan boom box that was _neon green_ , of all colors.

“Morning, Doctor!” she shouted over the music.

“No, no, _no!_ ” he groaned. “ _Why_ are you rickrolling me?”

“What’s rickrolling?” she asked innocently, wide-eyed and, unfortunately, still dancing. “I’m just playing the chart-toppers, love!”

The Doctor groaned again, cradling his head in his hands. “Please, make it stop!”

“No!” she said, grinning at him.

“Is this because I woke up half the dorms by playing ‘Pretty Woman’ last week?” he asked. “I know it was a scene, but that’s our song Clara!”

“There doesn’t have to be a reason!” Clara said. “And our song is that sweet one you wrote for me!”

With a heavy sigh, he plucked a screwdriver from the mug on his desk and pointed it at the boombox. It ceased playing with thundering finality, and the whir of a cassette being eaten.

Clara pouted. “That was a very expensive cassingle!”

“An expensive…” the Doctor began, not believing she’d even use that word. “Never mind. Clara!”

She just winked at him, and spun and turned from his office.

He stared at the door for a long while after she left. Two could play this game, _oh yes_.

 

* * *

 

It was about five AM Sunday morning when Clara’s peaceful sleep was shattered by the sounds of an electric guitar. Reaching for her screwdriver, she fell out of the bed with a loud yelp. She quickly determined two things: one, the Doctor was not in bed with her; and two, someone had taken her screwdriver.

“Bloody Doctor,” she muttered, trying to place the song. She knew she had heard it a long time ago.

The Doctor himself provided the answer, walking into the room and singing off-key, “ _This is how you remind me of what I really am. This is how you remind me of what I really am!_ ”

“Is that _Nickelback?!_ ” Clara shouted.

The Doctor suddenly stopped playing, a burst of feedback coming from whatever speakers he was playing out of. Clara instinctively put her hands over her ears.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” the Doctor said. “Do you not like Nickelback?”

“No one does!” Clara shouted.

“Shouting is very unnecessary,” the Doctor said, frowning.

“Shut up,” she snapped, standing up. “And isn’t that from the 90’s? It’s 1987!”

“2001, actually,” the Doctor said. “Really, Clara, you should know musical history.”

“Shut up,” she said again. “I’m an English teacher. And I was only playing chart-toppers.”

“Well, this _will_ top the charts in 2001,” the Doctor said.

“Topping the charts now!” Clara said, grabbing the guitar’s neck.

“Whatever you say, boss,” the Doctor said, smirking and handing over the guitar.

“I am very much resisting the urge to smash this over your head,” Clara said.

If anything, the Doctor’s infuriating smirk got even wider as he nodded, tossed her her screwdriver, and left the bedroom.

With a heavy sigh, Clara fell back into bed.

 

* * *

 

The Doctor was in the middle of a lecture on musical history the next afternoon. At least, that was what he was talking about; somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware that he was supposed to be lecturing on Medieval tapestries.

“Any questions?” he said, theatrically dropping his chalk on the floor.

Silence.

“Come now, I just dropped the mic,” the Doctor said. “That’ll be very funny in the 2010s!”

“I have a question!” came a very familiar voice from the back of the lecture hall.

The Doctor resisted the urge to groan. “Yes, Teacher?”

His wife slowly descended the steps towards the lecturn. “You said you were going to play us some samples of early rock and roll, about an hour ago, yet you never did.”

“Well,” he began.

“Something about the importance of Chuck Berry?” she asked, pointing to the sensible silver boombox in the middle of the room.

“Yes, Chuck Berry,” he said, walking over to it. “Born in St. Louis in 1926, died in—well, he lives a lot longer than many other rock stars.” He pressed the play button on the boombox. “I was talking about the seminal importance of ‘Roll Over Beethoven.’ Now—.”

Whatever he was to say next was drowned out by the very loud stylings of Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s “Relax.” With some confused laughter from the lecture hall, the Doctor glared at his wife, who simply winked and turned on her heel, leaving the hall.

 

* * *

 

“That was a very inelegant prank, Clara,” the Doctor said over dinner that night.

“Was it?” she asked. She held up one of her dishes. “Nardole, could you reheat this?”

The alien cyborg grabbed the plate, muttering under his breath as he left.

“I didn’t even know you were going to lecture on music,” Clara continued. “I mean, what was it supposed to be? Tapestries? You’ve gotta admire that I was able to pull the switch on you at the last minute.”

“But Frankie Goes To Hollywood?” the Doctor said. “That’s not even embarrassing.”

“When you first heard that song on the radio, you called it an ‘abomination of all that makes music holy.’”

“I was exaggerating.”

Clara smiled. “Well, I can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store for me tomorrow.”

“I don’t have anything ‘in store,’” he said.

“You’d better,” Clara said, her grin wider. “Because I’m really enjoying this.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Clara was in the middle of a lecture on the sociocultural impact of Charles Dickens on Victorian Britain. She was showing slides, as more elegant means would not be available for several more decades yet.

“In 1859,” she said, “Dickens published his greatest work of historical fiction, _A Tale of Two Cities_ , in which—.”

She pressed the button for a new slide, but instead of another slide appearing on the screen, music blasted from everywhere: the Doctor, again singing off-key. This time, Prince’s “Darling Nikki.”

“Oh, hell,” Clara muttered, yanking the projector’s cord from out of the wall. This had no effect whatsoever. “Doctor!”

The class broke into laughter as she ran about the room, turning switches and shouting at her husband.

 

* * *

 

“We need to talk,” Nardole said to the two of them in the evening.

“I don’t care what he says,” Clara said. “It’s definitely _not_ my turn to talk to Missy.”

“I spoke to the vice-chancellor this afternoon,” he continued. “He’s very much aware of the little pranks you’re playing against each other.”

“Is he now,” the Doctor said.

“I am to inform you two that another disruption of the learning environment will have you both suspended for two weeks.”

“With pay?” Clara asked.

Nardole sighed. “He didn’t specify, but I imagine with pay.”

Clara and the Doctor smiled at each other.

Needless to say, they were suspended for two weeks.


End file.
